


Starting Now

by ThePreciousHeart



Category: Barry (TV 2018)
Genre: Acting, Canon Compliant, Gen, Guilt, Memorials, Mid-Canon, Missing Scene, Phone Calls & Telephones, Starting Over, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:40:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22365760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePreciousHeart/pseuds/ThePreciousHeart
Summary: After a string of unfortunate events, Barry is ready to leave behind his life as a hitman and start anew with Sally in LA. However, one phone call serves as a reminder that while he might be done with his past, his past is not done with him. Set shortly after the last scene before the time skip in the season 1 finale.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 22





	Starting Now

**Author's Note:**

> Did it disturb anyone else that Barry attended Chris Lucado's memorial 5K, despite, you know, being the one who caused his death, and clearly feeling intensely guilty about it on top of that? I wrote this piece to try to justify that. Critique is, as always, appreciated!

The first thing Barry registered upon waking, besides the early morning sunlight, was his phone, buzzing away like a bee. He could feel the vibrations traveling across the floor from where it sat, tucked into the pocket of his discarded jeans. Most of his clothes were on the floor, come to think of it. Sally’s probably were too. She’d changed into a nightgown at some point during the night, but Barry hadn’t realized when he’d followed Sally home that he would be staying over. Maybe he’d ask Sally if it was okay to leave some of his things with her, since they seemed to be on good terms again.

He wasn’t sure how, but he’d managed to find his way back into Sally’s bed. It should have been a small comfort after all that had occurred over the week, but he relished it nonetheless. They’d lain together all night, until her touch evaporated the terrible images in his head, until she swallowed his suffering with her kisses. In the space of two days, so much shit had happened that Barry didn’t even want to think about– but next to Sally, he was beginning to believe that it might all go away.

What was it he’d said? He was done. Starting _now_. _Now. NOW._ He was done, and it was over, forever.

With a sigh, Barry heaved himself up from the bed. It took him a moment to figure out which pocket he’d left his phone in, but it was still vibrating by the time he located it. He didn’t recognize the number on the screen, but the LA area code quickly put his mind at ease. _Must be someone from class._ Barry shot a glance back to the bed– Sally didn’t appear to have stirred. _Good._ Quietly, he crept to the door, accepting the call once he heard the latch click shut behind him.

“Hello?”

“Hi, um...” It was a woman’s voice, one that sounded vaguely familiar, but Barry couldn’t place it. Though she spoke quietly, her breath rasped noisily in her throat. “Barry?”

_She knows my name…?_ Suddenly the voice became a lot more familiar, and Barry felt his heartbeat spike.

“Yes?” _God, don’t let it be—_

“It’s Sharon Lucado.” She swallowed audibly, and the sound echoed through Barry’s head like the wail of a fire engine. “Chris Lucado’s wife.”

The world shrunk down to a single point, swallowing everyone and everything but Barry, standing alone with a phone in his hand. The surrounding walls grew stifling. Desperately he glanced back to the door, longing for Sally beside him, but the bedroom seemed a million miles away.

“Yes?” he said again, because he wasn’t sure what else to say. Was his voice steady? Did he sound suspicious? Fear exerted dominance over him– _please don’t let her notice anything out of the ordinary–_ but an ugly, weaker impulse that wouldn’t show its face dared Sharon to incriminate him.

“It’s— about Chris.” Sharon swallowed again, and Barry hated himself for picturing her so clearly– one hand holding the phone to her ear, the other hiding the stress lines and the circles of exhaustion under her eyes. He hated that he knew what was coming, and yet he was immobile, powerless to hang up. Powerless to even tune Sharon out.

“Have you heard?”

“No, uh—" It was Barry’s turn to swallow and massage his face. He slowly slid to the floor, his back pressed against the wall. “Heard what?”

Sharon inhaled shakily. “Chris was... found, in his car a few days ago.” Though Barry presumed she’d already had to tell multiple people– surely he couldn’t be the first person on her contact list– it didn’t sound as if the task had gotten any easier. His heart thudded in response to Sharon’s broken words. “He took his life, Barry.”

“Aw,” Barry said, without fully realizing it. The sound was less of a word and more of a reaction to being kicked in the gut. He closed his eyes, fighting back an upswell of emotions that he could hardly dare to process. “Sharon... I’m so sorry.” It ached to say the words, to expose even an ounce of the guilt he’d been trying to stave off. If only Chris really _had_ taken his life, if only Sharon hadn’t called and Barry never had to look back on his actions in the car that day...

Suddenly, he couldn’t do this. He didn’t _want_ to do this. He wanted to hang up and block Sharon’s number, never to see or think of the Lucado family again. But Sharon was speaking, and Barry found himself hooked on her words like a nasty drug.

“I’m calling to invite you to the funeral.” Barry detected no wobbling or cracking in Sharon’s voice, and he wasn’t sure if that made him feel better or worse. He listened without hearing, her words passing through straight through him. “We’re holding it a week from now at LA National Cemetery. I know the two of you didn’t really keep in touch, but I think it would— it would have meant a lot to him.”

It took a moment for Barry to find his voice. “Yeah, I, uh...” He massaged the bridge of his nose, desperation rising inside him. How was he supposed to bow out? “I’m sorry, I don’t know if I can make it. I—” _–have a play to work on_ melted on the tip of his tongue. It was true, sort of, and surely it was an excuse that worked for other actors– not to mention it was what he’d rather be doing. But Barry found himself reluctant to give such an excuse. Something told him he’d sound like a total jerk.

“Are you—” Sharon cut herself off before Barry had time to mull over her unfinished question. She sighed quietly. “It’s fine, Barry. I understand.” Though her tone was unclear, Barry was pretty sure it wasn’t fine and she didn’t understand. People only ever said that to make others feel better, regardless of whether it was true.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, wishing that there was something he could do, but at the same time- _god,_ he should just stay away. His presence was not going to make Sharon feel any better, and seeing Sharon was not going to make _him_ feel any better, and if Barry could take a wild guess, he was pretty sure it would have meant even _more_ to Chris had the man who’d ended his life _not_ attended his funeral. This was really the best choice, for all involved. Cut ties with the Lucado family as quickly as he’d originally formed them. Ignore the part of him that still remembered the way he’d felt after Korengal, how he hadn’t been able to do anything for that poor family whose lives he’d ruined, but he could do something for Sharon and Theo, if he wanted… _No._ He couldn’t keep starting and stopping at his own convenience. He was supposed to be _done-starting-now,_ and that meant ending it– _all_ of it.

“Thank you, Barry,” Sharon murmured. Forgetting she couldn’t see him, Barry nodded, then hastily cleared his throat when he realized he hadn’t gotten a response.

“Um… if something changes, I— I’ll let you know, okay?”

“Okay,” Sharon said. “It’s been good talking to you.” Without another word, she hung up.

Slumping against the wall, Barry finally opened his eyes, but he didn’t take in any of his surroundings. His head was _reeling._ He’d never really understood that description before, but right now, it made perfect sense. His limbs felt weak and rubbery, providing feeble support. For a moment, he genuinely thought he might vomit all over the hallway carpet.

_Jesus Christ, Berkman, man up._ It took a valiant, concentrated effort, but finally Barry was able to uncurl himself and rise shakily to his feet. He longed to reach up, to cover his face or maybe tear his hair out, but he forced the urge away. What was going _on?_ He couldn’t remember ever feeling _this_ bad after… after doing what he had to do. Not the time when he’d grown sick of tailing a guy and shot him in the back in broad daylight, or the time he’d met his wasted, happily disheveled target right outside the ladies’ restroom at a nightclub, or the time he’d resorted to strangling a man because Hank was being an idiot, or even that time he’d stabbed a dude in the balls– although it was hard to feel sympathetic, given the crimes he’d committed. Barry had only ever felt so unstable in the wake of a hit when Ryan Madison’s father had come to speak at his memorial, and that hadn’t been anywhere close to the way he felt now.

But... maybe that was a good thing? Wasn’t this how _normal_ people were supposed to feel?

_If this is what normality feels like, I hope I never find out what’s wrong with me_. Just as quickly as it had sprung to mind, the thought horrified Barry. He was... He wasn’t a _bad guy_. What he’d done was wrong, wrong, _wrong,_ and he knew it. A bad guy wouldn’t know the difference. A bad guy wouldn’t feel the way he had in that sickening moment backstage, or the way he had on the beach, or the way he did now- all twisted up inside, as if a steamroller has driven over his guts.

Maybe Fuches’ philosophy was too black-and-white. Good guys didn’t always kill bad guys. Sometimes, good guys had to kill other good guys, and that didn’t mean they weren’t still a good guy.

_Or… did it…?_

Once Barry felt steady enough, he re-entered the bedroom. His footsteps, which had seemed so soft before, now echoed like gunshots through his head. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement.

“Hey,” Sally mumbled as she stirred. “What are you doing out of bed?”

Barry made a non-indicative gesture as he sat down beside her. “Had to take a call.” He watched as Sally threw back the covers and plopped her feet into his lap. Now that the room was bright, he could fully appreciate the way her silky nightgown hugged her body, but instead he was struck by her striped, fuzzy socks. Had she worn them the first time he’d slept over? He couldn’t remember. Maybe she had poor circulation or something, that made her feet get especially cold. Tentatively, he brushed a bit of lint off her sole, and Sally smiled.

“So today, I was thinking...” Sally stretched her arms behind her head, interrupting herself with a playful sigh. “I know you probably have stuff to do, but it wouldn’t be a bad idea to get a head start on _The Front Page_. You know, like actually go over our lines instead of using that as an excuse to fool around like we did last night.”

_Last night_. An embarrassingly obvious flush of heat came to Barry’s face. _She wants me to stay_. He must have done something right this time.

“No, I got nothing to do,” he said carefully. Last time he’d been kind of stupid and read Sally all wrong, resulting in her calling him out for it. He needed to be more mindful of his word choice, because last night probably hadn’t been a _date,_ exactly. Sally hadn’t apologized to him, but he hadn’t apologized, either, so… he guessed they were even _._

“I’m all yours if you want me.” Barry studied Sally’s face for a reaction. He hoped she wouldn’t freak out, since she didn’t seem big on the whole commitment thing. But her smile didn’t dim, and Barry relaxed.

“That’s very sweet.” Sally turned onto her stomach, rummaging through a pile of discarded items near the bed. “Okay, so, I’ve only got the one copy of the script. We can order more, but they won’t be in before Tuesday, which is ideally the time I’d like to start rehearsing…”

“Maybe we should pitch the idea to Mr. Cousineau first,” Barry offered, trying to be helpful.

Sally turned back to him, pursing her lips. “You’re probably right. I wouldn’t trust anyone else to direct this play. Hey, I bet he’d order the scripts for us if we ask nicely.” She playfully slapped Barry’s arm. “Anyway, I guess we could wait until Tuesday to get the class on board, and then... would next weekend work for you? I was supposed to do a birthday party but apparently the kid decided at the last minute that dinosaurs were all the rage and wants nothing to do with princesses anymore, and of _course_ that’s the one costume I don’t have. Figures!” Sally sighed. “Well, it’s probably for the best. Now that I’m hooked up with Daniel Meldman, I should probably start setting my sights higher, you know?”

“Um—" Barry reached up to scratch his nose. “I don’t know if I can do next weekend.”

“Why?” Sally pushed herself up on her elbows, her eyes half-lidded. “You forgot to cancel plans with your girlfriend?”

“What?” Barry said. “No. No, I just—"

“I’m joking, Barry. Sheesh.” Sally sat up, running her fingers through her messy hair. “I would never do that to you.” In an instant, her slight exasperation switched back to a delighted smile. “Wow, you really fell for it… I knew these classes were good for something.”

“I have to go a funeral,” Barry blurted. The words just sort of fell from his mouth and shattered the air like glass. He hadn’t realized he’d made up his mind until he said it. He wished he knew a more delicate way to put it, but even if there was one, he wouldn’t have been able to find it.

The smile slipped from Sally’s face. “Oh?”

“Yeah, uh...” Barry’s shoulders tensed, and he folded his arms across his chest, not wanting to look at Sally but knowing that he should. “Um... it’s for a buddy of mine, a guy I served with.” The truth tasted bitter in his mouth, because it wasn’t the full story. Of course, if Sally knew the full story, she’d kick him out of bed even faster than she had the first time.

“Oh,” Sally said again, a touch of uncertain concern in her voice. Leaning forward, she bridged the gap between herself and Barry, her hand coming to rest on Barry’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.” Barry closed his eyes as her fingers began to move, relaxing him, just enough for him to uncross his arms and lean closer. It really shouldn’t have felt as good as it did, but _god_. If she could just touch him like this all the time, that would be enough. Her movements seemed hesitant, but Barry didn't mind. She was _here_ for him and that was all that mattered.

“Do you want me to go with you?” Sally murmured. Surprised, Barry turned to look at her, taking in the honey-blonde locks framing her face, and the darkness of her eyes. He wondered what could have prompted her to say that, and whether she really wanted to go. She seemed generally concerned, but as always, it was difficult to discern her deeper thoughts. Still, it was a fair wager that she didn’t want to come, which Barry didn’t mind. He wouldn’t have invited her anyway.

“No— you don’t have to do that.”

Sally made a _hmm_ sound in the back of her throat and continued her massage. Her voice resonated deeply in Barry’s ears, calming him. “You know, Barry, grief is a great tool to use in your acting. I should know, I use it all the time. You draw on the pain to create an authentic experience. Going to a funeral? This could be _good_ for you.”

Echoes of the same sentiment that Sally had shared the night before spun through Barry’s head, and he found himself nodding. Frankly, the thought of returning to that dark place unsettled him to the core. But Sally had done it, and continued to do it, and it didn’t bother her. How brave she must be, to willingly step into her old shoes and relive her worst moments. _I could never do that, not in a million years._ Unless that was what it took to be a great actor… then, for god’s sake, he would _try._

“Thanks.” Barry leaned forward to rest his head on Sally’s shoulder. _Thank god our next work together is a comedy._

~

Driving up to Los Angeles National Cemetery gave Barry plenty of time to reflect on what he had done and what was to come, but he didn’t take the opportunity. Ignoring the issue seemed to work even better. The road ahead, the jangling radio, and the careful process of breathing in and out gave him plenty to occupy his mind. By the time Barry reached the parking lot, he was honestly beginning to think he might be okay and that he would make it through the service unscathed, when he was suddenly hit with an invisible weight. His hand reached for the car door, but he couldn’t follow through, each muscle feeling ten pounds heavier than it should.

What the _fuck_ did he think he was doing? This wasn’t like Ryan Madison’s memorial, which had been upsetting enough, but at least some of the scenes had been fun to watch and he really hadn’t known Ryan for very long and besides, he hadn’t been the one to pull the trigger on Ryan in the end. This was something completely different. This was offering _condolences_ over a loss for which he was directly responsible. As if that could smooth over the wound he’d opened. As if that would ease Sharon’s grief...

Screw this. _Should have taken Sally_. But no, that would have been unfair, she hadn’t known Chris and besides, she had work to do… Failing that, Barry should have stayed home. Suddenly the prospect of turning around and leaving was immensely enticing. No one had seen him arrive. No one was even expecting him. He could ditch the entire thing, head back, tell Sally that the event had been cancelled and he was free to rehearse now…

Barry might have bailed had it not been for the voice in his head, which sounded a lot like Fuches: _Don’t be a fucking pussy._ It wasn’t much, but it gave him enough strength to open the car door. The voice was right. He couldn’t go to pieces over every damn tragedy in his life, especially ones that he’d caused. He’d done what he needed to do. It was over. It _would_ be over, once he made it through this stupid funeral.

The service passed in a blur. It played out very much like how Barry had imagined– the flag-draped coffin, the soldiers standing at attention, Sharon putting on a brave face to mask her tears– but this time he was _there_ and he was experiencing it and it was every bit as fucking excruciating as he’d anticipated. He drifted, a steadfast statue in the back, his feet planted firmly on the ground but his mind unmoored, bobbing across choppy waters. When the first mournful notes of “Taps” echoed through the air, Barry nearly jumped out of his skin. The service had ended before he could process that it had begun.

What followed was mostly a blur, too. Barry tried to tell himself, the way Sally had told him, that it was _good_ that he’d attended the funeral. But he couldn’t see how it would help his acting, or how it would help him move forward. All he wanted was to get out of there, escape from the unfamiliar faces surrounding him, faces of loved ones whose hearts he’d broken. _More faces than would ever show up at my funeral._

He would have made it, too, had Sharon not spotted him from across the lawn. Barry tried his hardest not to look at her, his head down and his hands in his pockets, but as she grew in the corner of his eye he realized there wasn’t any use pretending and turned to meet her. Immediately his heart dropped. Sharon wasn’t alone; she’d brought Theo with her, holding onto his hand as if he were a toddler. Barry’s throat went dry. Sharon he could _maybe_ handle, but she just had to bring the kid...

“Barry!” Sharon let go of Theo’s hand and opened her arms, and before Barry knew it he was folded in them. He wanted to reciprocate, but the embrace was over quickly, the distance between them resuming. Sharon reached up to brush a long lock of hair behind her ear, her eyes dull and deadened. Looking at her would have unraveled Barry, had he been caught off-guard. He didn’t dare meet Theo’s gaze.

“Thank you for coming.” Sharon’s hands squeezed together, as if she wasn’t sure what to do with them. Barry hadn’t moved his own hands from his pockets. “It really means a lot. I’m sure Chris would have felt the same way.”

“Least I could do.” The words felt leaden in Barry’s mouth. For the first time, he realized that Cousineau was right about how bad of an actor he was. _Great._

He swallowed. “I’m really sorry about Chris.”

“Me too,” Sharon said softly. The pain in her eyes surfaced momentarily, and Barry had to quickly look away. _Come on… end this conversation already…_ Was Sharon waiting for him to say something? He glanced back at her, only to find that she wasn’t looking at him, but concentrating intently on a patch of grass beneath her feet

“They gave him a good resting place,” he said, to break the awkward silence. It really was nice, if he stopped to think about it. Chris probably would have liked it. Not that he and Barry had ever discussed such things. Not that they'd thought they had to. _God._ Sharon just nodded, still staring at the ground, her face drawn. Despite his best intentions, Barry’s heart swelled with concern, and he moved forward– but what could he possibly do? He had no business even being here in the first place…

“Sharon– are you—” Barry bit back the question. _Of course she fucking isn’t._

“I’m sorry.” Sharon shook her head, still staring at the ground, and a shudder rippled through her. “It’s just been hard, I mean— it’s something I never thought would—”

The Fuches-like voice in Barry’s head was telling him to leave it alone, and he knew that if he didn’t, he’d be digging himself into a deeper hole, but… _Dammit._ Barry reached for Sharon’s shoulder. Her watery eyes leapt to his face, but she didn’t pull away.

“You don’t have to be sorry.” Barry had no idea where his words were coming from, and he was half-afraid to find out. He only knew that if he stopped speaking, his stomach would clench and _something_ would happen, something bad. “Do you want to go… Do you want to talk about it?”

Sharon nodded, her forehead creasing and her lips pressing together in a firm, thin line. She turned around and motioned for Barry to follow her, Theo moving along as if he were glued to her side. For half a second Barry was tempted to stay, but he’d made this bed; now he had to lie in it. He followed Sharon along to the parking lot.

Upon reaching what was presumably her car, Sharon ushered Theo into the backseat. The knot of tension within Barry eased slightly. He was both surprised and relieved that he’d managed not to look at Theo the entire time. Of course, facing Sharon alone wasn’t much better, but he found that his concern for her had edged out his discomfort. Sharon leaned against the car’s hood, her arms folded over her chest.

“I don’t… I hope you don’t think I’m trying to unload on you all of a sudden. I mean, I hardly…” Sharon trailed, off, glancing around the parking lot, and Barry tried to fill in the blank. _I hardly know you?_ Well, that was fair. They’d only met the one time, before Chris had decided to join Barry on his ill-fated meeting with the Bolivians. Barry had assumed he’d be seeing more of Sharon; he just hadn’t realized it would turn out this way.

“No, it’s cool,” he said uncertainly. “I mean, it—” and then it was his turn to trail off, because _it sucks_ was a painfully inadequate descriptor of Sharon’s situation. It was the equivalent of placing a Band-Aid over a third-degree burn, or of his showing up to Chris’ funeral.

“It’s just… it’s good to be around someone who knew him before.” Despite her sorrow, Sharon’s eyes began to gleam with the love that she and Chris had shared. “Chris was very proud of his service for our country. I heard plenty of stories over the years, from him and from the men he served with. It seemed like some part of him was never able to let it go. We had dinner with one of his battle buddies at least once a week.” She smiled fondly in reminisce, before the smile abruptly dropped. “I don’t think he ever mentioned you…”

Wait. Was that some kind of accusation? _What does she know?_ Barry struggled not to show the surprise on his face, before realizing that Sharon was still talking.

“…it’s just a shame that the two of you had so little time to reconnect,” Sharon was murmuring. Slowly, Barry’s chest deflated with relief. He watched her eyes and lips closely, trying to uncover her purpose.

“I guess my point is… even though Chris talked constantly about it, I had no idea what the Marines put him through. He never spoke about what kind of trauma he must have endured. I mean, even working in logistics must have been a nightmare. I just wish…”

Barry wasn’t able to hear what Sharon wished, due to an uproar of violent emotions that suddenly surged through him. He couldn’t decipher the ugly, muddled feelings, only the overwhelming sense of _wrongness_ that warped him. He didn’t… why was Sharon telling him this? She’d said she hadn’t wanted to unload on him, but here she was forcing him to carry a burden for which he hadn’t asked. She had no right speculating on that stuff anyway, not here in public, in front of an almost-perfect stranger…

Besides, Sharon was ridiculously off-base. Sure, Chris had been traumatized at the time of his death, but not because of his service. Planning and paperwork hadn’t done that to him. It hadn’t given him nightmares, or worse than that, the _nothingness_ , where time went wonky and days changed by the minute but hours passed with an agonizing slowness, and there was nothing to do except lie down and move aside the half-empty pizza boxes and let the TV drone on and on in the background, anything to block out the static in his head…

Chris’ service hadn’t scarred him. He’d come out of it alive, settled down, found a wife and had a kid. He’d never been swayed to pick up a weapon again, and even if he had, he wouldn’t have chosen to use it. He’d still been _capable_ of choosing. And the fact that Sharon didn’t see that, despite her _marriage_ to the guy, filled Barry with so much _wrongness_ that he wanted to step forward, look Sharon in the eye, and confess that he’d shot her husband. Served _her_ right for misunderstanding—

_No. What? What the fuck??_ In an instant, Barry shackled his own thoughts, locking them into a padded cell from which they couldn’t escape. What was _wrong_ with him? _What’s wrong with me…_

“Barry?” Sharon’s voice intruded on his inner struggle. Her eyes were narrowed, her forehead creased in concern. “Is… Are you okay?”

Quickly Barry nodded, not liking the way she was looking at him. Her gaze was too shrewd, as if he were made of cellophane. If he lingered much longer, he’d give too much of himself away.

“Uh… it’s been good catching up with you,” he said, in a stilted attempt to conclude the conversation. “I think I should head out soon—”

“Wait.” Sharon leaned forward, and though Barry knew it was best to step away, he didn’t react. His arms folded across his chest, as if instinctively protecting him from her presence.

“There’s something I wanted to ask…” Sharon licked her dry lips, then forged ahead. “This past week, I’ve gotten in contact with a lot of Chris’ old friends, and… we thought it might be good to hold a benefit in his memory. Something like a 5K run. All proceeds would go to the National Foundation for Suicide Prevention.”

_Oh._ The sense of surprise was so palpable that Barry couldn’t believe he hadn’t blurted it out. Of all the things he’d expected Sharon to say… He had a strangely inappropriate sense of leveling up in their… acquaintanceship? _First the funeral, then the benefit…_

The choice to accept the invitation weighed heavily. Following through was basically admitting that everything he’d said about being _done, finished,_ etc. was a total lie. But goddammit… it still hurt. And the only method of easing that pain of which Barry could think was to help those he’d hurt in return. Turning himself in wouldn’t suffice; he had to make amends. By helping Sharon and her family, he could prove that he’d _changed,_ 100%, and that he deserved happiness…

Maybe he’d eventually convince himself, too.

“Yeah, that’s a really cool idea,” Barry heard himself saying. “I’ll definitely come.”

And that was that. No more questions, no more doubts. He would come, for Sharon’s sake. For Theo’s sake. For Chris’ sake, wherever he was now.

The relieved, miniscule half-smile on Sharon’s face, and her whispered _“Thank you,”_ almost made up for the struggle Barry had gone through just to attend the funeral. Almost. But strangely, he didn’t feel half as badly as he had upon arriving. Perhaps he’d been looking at it all wrong. This wasn’t dwelling on the past– this was _progress._ This was good for him, just as Sally had said.

The words pulsated in the back of his mind as he left the cemetery: _She’ll be so proud of me._


End file.
